The Words to Explain
by inigo1220
Summary: Snippets of Fingon's growing up, centered around one word, and Fingon's associated memory. Mostly fluff, some angst. Will include the specific warnings and tags that apply in the notes of each chapter. This Fingon is the same Fingon of another Modern AU story I wrote titled "(Without) Question"
1. Chapter 1: Library

**Library**

**Note: Children have some knowledge of their letters by age three, but typically don't know their entire alphabet (and letter-sound association) until about age five. Fingon's a little genius. **

Fingon doesn't like the library very much. On days when they work from home, his mom or his dad take him. He likes how the library has a lot of books with cool pictures. He really likes the circle with benches with the different games and big blocks. He likes making things with the blocks.

No, he likes the library. He just doesn't like Mr. Irmo.

Mr. Irmo is boring. He's always telling the kids to stop making so much noise, always "This is the library; you have to use your inside voice!" He always tells Fingon off if he runs, even just a little bit, because "This is the library; you have to walk!" One day, Fingon retorts that it's not his fault he is little and has little legs and that he wouldn't run if he was big like Mr. Irmo. Mr. Irmo scowls at him. "Well, then grow up!" he replies. When he turns his back, Fingon sticks his tongue out at him.

Then one day, Mr. Irmo is leading story time, and even though Fingon doesn't like Mr. Irmo, he loves it when Mr. Irmo leads story time. Mr. Irmo makes the books come alive. Fingon would never say this to her, but he actually would rather have Mr. Irmo read to him than his mom. She's kind of a boring story teller. Mr. Irmo is trying to get all the kids to sit and he tells Fingon, "Go sit on the blue square." Fingon looks at the rug.

"Which? The one with A, or the one with M?"

Mr. Irmo stares at him for a second, and Fingon braces himself for another "This is the library" lecture. "The one with M," Mr. Irmo replies. Fingon takes a seat on the M, eager to hear the story. Mr. Irmo does an amazing job, and Fingon is disappointed when it's over.

But Mr. Irmo comes up to him. "Do you know your letters?" Fingon nods. "What's this one?" He points to P on the rug. Fingon sighs. Why do adults never believe him when he says he knows his letters? He walks away from Mr. Irmo, but before the librarian can say anything, Fingon points down at the rug.

"A." He moves one square down. "B." He moves again. "C." And again. "D." He keeps going and going until he gets to Z. He tries to resist smirking, but Mr. Irmo doesn't look all that impressed like the other adults normally do. His mom almost cried tears of joy when he got through the whole alphabet, and his Atya bought him ice cream.

Mr. Irmo mainly looks interested. "Can you spell your name?"

Fingon scowls at the ground. "No," he admits. "But I know it starts with F!" He starts to look around for his amil. Mr. Irmo is making him mad. He's only three. Isn't it enough that he knows his alphabet? Stupid library man. He spots his mother. Amil is on her computer, but she sends him a smile and waves.

"Do you want to learn?"

Fingon's head snaps back to Mr. Irmo. He eyes him with suspicion, but he also really would like to learn how to spell his name. Maybe if he learns it, he can show his mom before they leave, and she'll get him pizza for dinner. Fingon nods.

Mr. Irmo looks thrilled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Penis**

**CW: gender dysphoria **

Fingon stares at it with distaste. His father stands beside him, chuckling. "It's okay, Findekano. It's not dirty. It's just another part of your body," Fingolfin reassures. "Come on, you need to learn how to do this on your own before you can go to school – and you want to go to school, right?"

Fingon bites his lip. He does want to go to school. He's seen in the library how the older kids come in with drawings and crafts, and they can read the words from the page without their parents help, and Fingon really wants to do arts and crafts and read, too. His parents promised him that they would see about getting him into a school – but he had to learn to pee right first.

"Findekano, come on, this is important. You always leave a mess, and that's not the worst thing here, because this is our home, but at school you have to share the bathroom, so you need to learn to do it neatly." His father's voice is stern. Fingon looks at it again, and a feeling of revulsion swells in him at the thought of having to touch it. He looks at the way his father has curled his hand around his own. His father's is a lot bigger than his. He hopes desperately his would never be that big. His father sighs, then kneels beside him, looking at him directly. "Can you tell me what's wrong? Remember, you have to use your words, otherwise I can't understand." He's using that soft voice, the one he uses when Fingon is really upset and needs to be calmed down. Fingon feels comforted by it. His Atya is not mad.

He wishes he had the words to explain. "It's gross," he finally mutters.

"Okay," his father drawls. "What's gross about it?"

"It's weird," Fingon insists.

"What's weird?"

"Can I sit?" Fingon asks, suddenly. Fingolfin looks at the potty. "Please, Atya? I can go slower so it won't make a mess," he promises. Fingolfin shakes his head, and Fingon feels tears of frustration welling in his eyes. Why won't his Atya let him pee like he always does? Why is he making him touch it? "I don't want to touch it!" Fingon yells, his frustration getting the better of him, and he stomps his little feet on the ground. Fingolfin's eyes go wide, and he immediately strokes his son's hair. "I don't want to touch it," Fingon repeats, frowning severely, lips pouted.

Fingolfin opens his mouth then closes it. He tries again: "Fin, let me know if I'm right. You don't want to potty like this because you don't want to touch your penis?" Fingon nods, relaxing a little. "Ok. Are you scared to?"

Fingon thinks for a second and then shakes his head.

"Ok. Um, will it help if we wash first?"

Fingon frowns. "No." His Atya doesn't get it. Fingolfin falls silent. Fingon looks at him. He doesn't seem angry, just confused.

"Fin, you know how the toilet is bigger than the potty you normally use?" Fingon nods. "Well, the toilets at school are going to be like that, too, buddy. That's why it's so important for you to learn to do it this way, the way that I showed you. Plus, that's how all the other boys are going to do it, and you don't want to be the only boy doing it the wrong way, right?"

Fingon scowls. "I don't care."

"But you do care about going to school," his father retorts. Fingon ponders this. He looks back at the little stepping stool his parents got him. They smiled so much when they got it for him at the store; they said they were going to teach him how to pee like a big boy, and that then he could go make arts and crafts and learn to read for real. Fingon takes a step closer to the stepping stool. He looks back at his Atya who breaks into a wide smile. "That's it, Finno. See, it's not so scary. Get on the step; you won't reach otherwise." Fingon steps onto the stool. Tears start forming in his eyes again. He looks down at that stupid thing between his legs. He scrunches his eyes closed and grabs it, hating the sensation of the soft skin in his hand. He lets go, and he hears the sound of his pee hitting the water.

"Great job, Finno! Look at you! You even have perfect aim!" he hears his father exclaim. He hears the pride in his father's voice, the genuine joy. The last bit of pee dribbles out, and Fingon immediately lets go of it, hops off the stool, and launches himself against his dad, clutching tightly at his leg, sobbing. "Finno, Finno," Fingolfin picks him up and holds him against his chest. "What's wrong, buddy?" His father rubs circles into his back, but Fingon can't stop crying.

He doesn't have the words to explain why he feels so sick.


	3. Chapter 3: Skin

**Skin**

The night before his first day of school, his mom walks into his room and sits on the bed. She kisses his forehead. "Are you excited for tomorrow?" she asks.

Fingon grins. "Yes! I hope I get the nice teacher with the pretty dress!" Going to the open house had made him even more excited to go to school. The school had a huge playground with a giant slide Fingon was dying to try out, and the library in the classroom had a very cozy rug, and even had books that didn't have pictures in them, just in case, the teacher winked at him.

Anaire smiles at him. "I'm glad you're excited. You're so smart, and school is going to help you be even smarter." Fingon nods eagerly. He's only three and a half but he's learned all his letters already, even if sometimes b and d confuse him. He just has to keep saying the song in his head: a, b, c, d… "Finno, I wanted to talk to you about something important."

"About what, amil?"

She smiles, and Fingon is proud of his use of Quenya. "Do you remember your grandfather, Finwe?" Fingon thinks for a moment, then nods. Grandpa Finwe had only come to visit them once. He was weird. He made Atya sad. Fingon didn't like him very much, but he was told he wasn't allowed to say so, because it's rude to say that about people. "You know how your grandfather looks different from me and your Atya?"

"Well, yeah, he's old," Fingon says.

"Findekano!"

"What? He is. His skin is all weird," Fingon protests. Anaire puts a hand over her mouth and her shoulder shake. Fingon smiles. That's what his mom does when he says something funny, but she doesn't want to laugh in front of him. "Was that rude?"

Anaire laughs. She nods. "Yes, Finno. Please don't say that about people." Her smile fades. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about, skin." Fingon frowns. Skin? "Your grandfather's skin is different than mine, and your dad's is different than mine, and yours is different, too—"

"But it's all beautiful 'cause different is beautiful, and black is beautiful," Fingon dutifully finishes and finally understanding that his mom isn't referring to wrinkles; she's referring to skin colors. Anaire smiles again, then she looks conflicted. Fingon frowns.

"Finno, a lot of the kids at your school are going to look like your grandpa."

Fingon stares at her. This is the important thing she wanted to talk about? "Okay."

"They might… they might not have seen someone who looks like you before, and they might say something about your skin color." Fingon looks down at his arm. He's never really thought too much about his skin color. He knows it's different than a lot of people who live around them. He knows he's not the same skin color as mom, who has darker skin than him, or his dad, who has lighter skin than him. But it's like his hair, he always figured: he's a mix of his mom and dad's love and therefore everything about him is like that, including his skin. "Like, they might have some questions about it, or they might want to touch your arm or your hair," she continues, her voice gentle.

Fingon scrunches his nose. "I don't want people touching my hair. They'll mess it up." Anaire chuckles.

"Well, that's exactly it. You have every right to tell them no. But what's the golden rule?"

"Treat people the way you wanna be treated," Fingon dutifully recites.

"Exactly. So, if someone touches your hair, do you yell at them?"

"No."

"What do you do?"

"Move away?" Fingon suggests. "Tell them, please don't do that."

Anaire gives him a quick peck on the cheek. She unfurls the blanket at the foot of the bed and wraps him in it, the way she knows he likes. Once cocooned in the soft blanket, she kisses his forehead again. "Amil loves you so much, Finno."

Fingon smiles widely. "I love you, too."

"Good night, Finno."

"Good night, amil."


	4. Chapter 4: Run

**Run**

In Kindergarten, Fingon discovers he has a superpower: he can run faster and longer than any kid his age.

It starts in PE class when their coach informs them that today they would all do their best to run a whole mile. "It's okay if you don't run the whole mile, but I want you do to your best," their coach tells them. Fingon is nervous. He doesn't know how long a mile is, but it sounds long, and he knows he likes running, but he's not sure if he'll like running the whole mile. Coach takes them out to the track and explains that the track that winds around the soccer field and the playground and the basketball courts is a mile long, exactly. He lines them up, boys first, then girls. Fingon stays between the packs. "When I blow the whistle, you can go, but be careful, make sure you don't push anybody." They all nod. Fingon worries someone will push him.

Coach blows the whistle.

Initially, it's the fear of getting pushed by someone that makes Fingon dash down the track, but seconds later, he's gone from between the groups of girls and boys to being a few feet ahead of the next kid. His excitement at being first gives him the energy to keep going, even though he's starting to breathe really fast. He ventures another glance back. He's managed to widen the distance between him and the second place kid. He runs and runs and runs and runs and doesn't even notice when he crosses the line he started at until Coach runs up from behind him and grabs his arm, "Fingon!" Fingon stops.

"Yeah?" he pants.

"You can stop now," the Coach tells him, sounding amused.

Fingon frowns. "Do I have to?"

Coach stares at him. "You want to keep running?" he asks doubtfully.

Fingon nods. He likes it. It's like being in a car, except driving himself. "Can I?"

Coach shrugs. "I guess so, but don't worry about going so fast. You made better time that I've pretty much ever seen a six year old make."

"I'm five," Fingon corrects. "I'm five and a half. I started school early," he explains.

"Okay. Well, if you start feeling tired, you should definitely stop."

"Okay." He keeps running.

Two rounds around the track later, and Fingon finally decides he's tired and slumps against the nearest tree. To his disappointment, he's landed himself next to some of the boys who have been mean to him because Fingon uses pink and purple in his drawings, and those boys are stupid and think boys should only paint with boy colors like blue and green and brown. He watches warily as one of them approaches him, except the other boy is grinning.

"You run really fast!" the boy says, standing in front of him.

Fingon shrugs. He is proud of himself for being able to run faster than everyone else, but his dad tells him it's not okay to brag, so he decides to not say anything.

"Do you want to be friends?" the boy asks him. "If you're my friend, you can play kickball on my team tomorrow. I bet you'll score a lot of points." Fingon looks at him. This boy has done nothing but be mean to Fingon since the first day of Kindergarten, and Fingon wants to say no. But no one has ever asked him to play on their team before, much less be his friend, and Fingon decides it might be better to have a friend who is sometimes mean than have no friends at all.

"Okay," Fingon says, keeping his voice nonchalant. "We can be friends."

The boy grins and gives him a high five. "Awesome! I'll go tell the other guys. We're totally gonna win tomorrow!" The boy dashes away back to the picnic table where the other boys are, and Fingon smiles to himself. Today has been the best day ever. He discovered he has a superpower, and he made a new friend.


	5. Chapter 5: Dress

Fingon scrunches his eyebrows as tightly as can be and balls his fists at his sides. Words are failing him, and his parents need to understand how angry he is. "You said I could choose whatever I want!" he repeats. He tries to keep his voice down, as to not make a scene in this public place, but his frustration makes the words come out louder than he intended. A couple of other shoppers glance at them, but quickly return to their own business. Fingon returns his glare to his parents, who look at each other for guidance.

Fingon doesn't understand. This is simple. They told Fingon he would get to choose his Kindergarten graduation outfit. He chose – and now they're saying no. To add insult to injury, they are having one of those silent adult conversations, the ones where they raise their eyebrows and widen their eyes and shrug their shoulders—and don't say anything.

But they said he could have anything he wanted!

He's old enough to know better than to scream or cry—he's not a baby like Turgon—but he is young enough to plop down on the ground and sit criss-cross-applesauce, a silent indication that if the adults want him to move, they will either concede to his request or force him to his feet. He keeps the glare on his face, but his parents have hardly noticed him. They keep making faces at each other, communicating in that silent way that parents do, and on any other occasion, Fingon would try to understand.

But his parents made a promise, and now they're breaking it, and it's not fair.

Finally, his father turns to him, using that soft voice he uses sometimes, "Finno, buddy, we're just trying to help you make a good choice." Fingon maintains the glare. He has already made his choice; he made it a long time ago. He saw that dress the moment they walked past the dress section of the store, right at the very entrance. He knew the moment he saw this dress that that was what he wanted to wear to graduation. He would have said as much to his parents, too, if they hadn't completely ignored him when he tried tugging on their sleeves to go in that direction! Instead, they wasted time going to the boring section with all the suits in all the boring colors. They said he could choose anything – why would he choose some boring dark blue, or black, or grey suit? Even the ties at this store were boring. Ties could be fun. His dad had some nice ties—purple, baby blue, even one with dinosaurs—but the ones at this store were red, navy, white, and a couple greens, which Fingon might have consented to wear, because green is a nice color, but he saw the dress first. He wanted the dress most. He chose it.

"You said I could choose," Fingon repeats stubbornly, emphasizing the "I." "You promised." Tears of frustration start to well in the corners of his eyes. Why can't they see that this matters to him? Why won't they just let him have the dress? He's not asking to stay up until midnight or eat cake for dinner; he just wants to wear a pretty dress to graduation instead of some boring suit!

"Finno, we just…" Anairë looks torn. "We just don't want the other kids to be mean to you." Surprised by her words, Fingon forgets to keep frowning and blinks away his tears. What does that have to do with anything? He stares, waiting for her to explain herself. "I mean, you wouldn't want them to call you names during your graduation, would you?" Anairë continues. "We want you to have a really good day."

Fingon looks back at the bright yellow dress he wants. It's bright like the yellow crayons they use to draw the sun in class. It's not a boy color, but the kids in his class gave up long ago on trying to tease Fingon into using just boy colors. Sure, whenever they have to interact with someone outside of his class, he gets weird looks, but, in his class, everyone knows that the winning team at recess is going to have Fingon on it – and at the end of the day, winning is more important than whether or not Fingon uses pink and purple in his artwork.

"They won't care," Fingon shrugs.

"I told you not to encourage him," Fingolfin mutters.

Fingon looks up at his father, confused. Encourage him to what? His fists clench again, frustrated by the lack of explanations. His parents restricted his clothing choices before, but last time they explained why: the school rules say that only girls can wear skirts; Fingon is classified as a boy, so he must wear the shirt and pants uniform that boys are supposed to wear. He understood this. There are rules, and rules are meant to be followed—and, after all, pants have pockets, and pockets are useful for carrying his pencils. Are there some days where he wishes he could wear a skirt and have it swish around him? Absolutely. Did he ever throw a tantrum about it? No, because his parents had a reasonable explanation as to why not.

But there was no rule about who got to wear what on graduation day, because you don't have to wear a uniform that day because it's a special day – and he's not going to need a pencil at graduation, right? And his parents—

His parents said he could choose whatever _he_ wanted.

He looks at his mother for support. He knows he confuses his dad sometimes. He can see the uneasiness in his father's eyes when Amil paints his nails or lets him try on her wigs. When Amil told him, laughing, that Fingon had tried on her heels only to fall on his face, his dad only managed an uncomfortable smile. When Fingon tried to cross his legs at the dinner table like his mother, Atya gave him a funny look and asked him why he did that, and wasn't it an uncomfortable way to sit?

His father got that same funny look on his face when Fingon declared he didn't want to wear anything here, but that there was a dress he wanted to try on at the front of the store. "We can go to a different store," Fingolfin offered. Fingon declined.

Looking his mother straight in the eye, Fingon says, "Amil, you said, 'Finno, we're so proud of you; we're gonna let you choose your graduation outfit, whatever you want.'"

Anairë look at him for a few moments, her lips form a sad smile that Fingon doesn't quite understand. She looks back at Fingolfin. "You know he's stubborn as a mule."

"He's going to get eaten alive," Fingolfin replies, rubbing at his temples.

Fingon frowns in confusion. Eaten alive? Gross. But also, by who?

Amil turns and gives him a small, uncomfortable smile. "Well, it's all a moot point isn't it, until we see if it actually fits you."

Fingon's eyes go wide as his grin, and he jumps into his mother's arms. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" he squeals. He leaps up and grabs the dress from the rack, running to the dressing room before they can change their mind.


	6. Chapter 6: Graduate

Fingon can't resist the urge to hop in front of the mirror, watching with glee as the yellow fabric bounces around him. His hair has grown almost an inch up, forming curls that bounce when he jumps. From the corner of the room, Anairë chuckles. "Stay still, Finno, I want to get a picture of you." Fingon turns around and gives her a bright smile, as she points her cell phone at him. The moment she puts it away and turns her attention to the mirror, Fingon resumes his happy dance. They don't have to be at school until 10AM today, so he got to sleep in; he's wearing the dress he wanted for graduation; and at 11AM, he's going to get his first ever diploma.

Fingolfin walks in, dressed, except for the bright yellow tie hanging from his shoulders. Fingon stares up at him. The tie matches Fingon's dress exactly. "The babysitter is here," Fingolfin informs Anairë. He looks down to his eldest. "You look very pretty, Finno," his Atya says sincerely with a smile.

Fingon beams. "Thank you!" He hugs his Atya's leg tightly, then lets go. "When are we leaving?"

"As soon as the babysitter settles in," Anairë promises. She's putting on earrings, and Fingolfin watches her for a moment, before returning his gaze to Fingon.

Much to Fingon's surprise, his Atya asks, "Finno, do you want to get your ears pierced like Amil?"

Anairë drops the earring. She stares at Fingolfin, then blinks, and picks up the earring. She watches Fingon through the mirror.

Fingon considers it, then wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "No."

Fingolfin seems intrigued, but he replies easily, "Okay."

The ride to school is filled with Fingon's chatter. It's a relief to him that he'll see all of these kids next year; he has a lot of friends; he likes the first grade teachers; he'll still get to each lunch first. When Fingolfin finishes parking, he kills the engine, then turns to Fingon, who immediately falls silent at the sight of his father's serious expression. "Hey, buddy, whatever happens in there, you remember the golden rule, okay?" Fingon frowns, but he nods. Fingolfin's eyes shine. "And remember that we love you, and we're proud of you, and we're so happy you're our child." Fingon squirms a little in his seat. Atya never calls him "child." He always says, "son."

Fingon isn't sure how he feels about this development.

But he sees one of his friends getting out of their parent's vehicle and the thought vanishes from his mind, and he practically jumps out of the car with Fingolfin and Anairë panicked, jumping with him and telling him to slow down. They walk into the school—well, his parents walk, Fingon skips—and Fingon notices everyone is looking at him.

He knows why, but he feigns ignorance. "It's a really pretty color, isn't it?" he remarks to one of the parents of his friend who keeps staring at him. The woman smiles at him, but it's an awkward smile. His friend groans.

"Astaldo, why didn't you say you were going to wear yellow? The whole soccer team would've gotten yellow ties to match!"

Fingon grins. "Sorry, didn't think of that."

"Astaldo?" Anairë comments with a raised eyebrow after they've parted.

Fingon shrugs but looks pleased. "I forgot to bring something to show and tell, so I told them my middle name, and I told them it means brave. And then I climbed a really big tree to get the ball out and then everyone started calling me Astaldo since it means brave. It was a really big tree. I was scared—but I got the ball down." Anairë laughs, and she holds his hand, as they walk towards his father who was chatting with the school principal.

Well, at first Fingon thought they were chatting, but as they approach, he tightens onto his mother's hand. Something is wrong. When his father is angry, he doesn't yell. He starts speaking in a tight voice, tight like walking across a tightrope, say one wrong thing, and you're in for it. That's the voice he's using with the principal. His mother stops them in their tracks, but they are close enough that Fingon hears—and he hears that voice.

"I refused to apologize or repent for allowing my child to dress as he wishes for his day of celebration," Fingolfin hisses.

"I am not asking for an apology or penance, Mr. Nolofinwion," the principal replies, his own voice even. "I merely expected a greater touch of consideration on you and your wife's part to educate your child on expected cultural norms, before the day of celebration is detracted from… I can see we are not of like mind. Let me be blunt: if you chose to bring your son to an event dressed in that, fashion, the school cannot be held accountable for the reactions of its community members, and I would hate for your son to have a poor experience at this school."

Anairë tries to get him to walk away, but Fingon pulls her back, rooted to the spot: the tips of Fingolfin's ears are red. His Atya has only ever spanked him once in his life and that time, the tips of his ears were red. Fingon needs to hear, needs to see, needs to know how his father will react.

"And I merely expected a greater touch of consideration from a place charged with inspiring, uplifting, and educating young minds for a young child who is trying to explore his identity. Anything less—do not interrupt me," Fingolfin's glare makes Fingon tremble. "Anything less is unacceptable for any such institution of learning and growing, and I am flabbergasted to be having this conversation with a school official in which I my son, my child's well-being is being threatened – do not dare deny it, you homophobic fool. This school should be bending over backwards to ensure that students like my son are treated with the utmost respect; it is your responsibility to provide a safe space for children to learn, and instead I come to my son, my child's graduation to find that the _children_ here are better behaved than the adults!

"Not a single child has so much as batted an eyelash at my son, my child's outfit. None. Instead, a wonderful young boy complimented my son and lamented that he did not share which color he would be wearing so that his friends might wear it also, in solidarity, but you—an educator, a well-educated adult have the gall, the audacity to come up to me and accuse me of not knowing what is right for my child and threatening me to keep him in line? I will not stand for it."

The next part was so quiet, Fingon had to strain to hear his father's words: "You know who I am, and I will be writing both to the school board and to our city council, and if I have to testify to the damn' council, if I have to bring this to a national level, so help me, Eru, believe me I will. But you will not, you will not, and you will never again threaten my child and his well-being, and, to me, that means my son stays here with his friends, and you go."

The principal stares silently at Atya, but Fingolfin turns and stalks away. Fingon stares at him in wonder, as he approaches, imagining his Atya to be like the brave heroes in the stories he reads. Fingon has never interacted with the principal until today, really, and the principal was one of the ones who stared at him. Fingon didn't think this was such a big deal, but to hear his father come to his defense, regardless…

Upon reaching his wife and child, Fingolfin reaches out his hand towards Fingon. "Ready to graduate, buddy?"

Fingon grins and takes his father's hand.

No one else comments on his appearance. He walks up the steps to the stage to grab his diploma and take his picture, grinning at his mother and father who cheer loudly from the audience along with his friends and their families. He presents his diploma proudly to his parents, and they go out to eat at a nice restaurant, and chat some more about summer and first grade. They get home and relieve the babysitter, and Fingon busies himself with playing at blocks with Aredhel, whose chubby little fingers can hardly hold the blocks, until Atya says it's time for Aredhel's bedtime story, and Amil takes Turgon to the dining room table for his milk.

Normally, Fingon joins Aredhel for the story, but today, he has an important question to ask his Amil, so he follows her into the dining room instead. Fingon has no patience, and the moment his father is out of earshot, he blurts: "Why does Atya keep calling me child?"

Anairë frowns. "You are only six years old."

"No," Fingon groans. "Like, why does Atya say I'm his child and not his son."

Anairë is silent for a while. Then, she finally responds: "There are two meanings for the word 'graduate,' you know?" Fingon cocks his head to the side. "One is like the one you did today, getting your diploma, but graduate can also mean to change, change slowly, but change." She pauses and looks meaningfully at his father who is reading on the couch. "I don't think you're the only one who graduated today, Finno," she says with a soft smile.

Fingon looks at his dad. His dad who fought the school principal for him, who seemed to finally accept that his child likes wearing dresses and can look pretty in them. His father, who loves him. Fingon doesn't really understand what his mother means, but he knows that even though his dad isn't calling him his son anymore, he is loved all the same—maybe even more. He hugs his mother tightly and buries his face against her side, happy.

A/N: Don't mess with Fingolfin and little Finno. Fingolfin will end you.


	7. Chapter 7: Like

**Like**

I like…

Dogs

Ice crem

Sumer

Soccer

Music class

I don't like…

Hamstrs

Brocoli

Winter

I like sports

Fingon looks up at his classmates who painstakingly form their letters, proud of himself for being the closest one to done in their first ever writing task in first grade. He rereads his list, confident in his answers. He does like dogs and ice cream and summer and soccer and music class. He doesn't like hamsters, or broccoli, or winter, but he doesn't know a sport he doesn't like, so he just wrote, "I like sports." But in the last blank, Fingon has to write something he doesn't like about school.

He frowns. What doesn't he like about school? Fingon likes his reading class and math class and computer class and music class. The teachers are usually pretty nice, and even when they're not, he knows his class was bad. His school is pretty and looks new. The walls are all bright colors that help you figure out which corridor you're in, like the blue corridor is the Kindergarten corridor, and the green corridor is the 1st grade corridor. Recess is a lot of fun, and he knows most of the kids. The cafeteria usually has pizza or chicken nuggets and even chocolate milk, so Fingon really can't complain about the food. He looks about the classroom, the artwork from years prior decorating the walls, the reading rug and the number corner, the alphabet parallel to the ceiling, the clusters of desks about the room, and finally, his eyes fall to the hall passes next to the door.

One pink (for girls) and one blue (for boys). He contemplates them.

He just doesn't like it when the teachers tell them to line up boy, girl, boy, girl. Or when the teachers say, "We're doing boys versus girls today!" Or when they say that at lunch, you have to sit boy, girl, boy, girl.

He is different than the boys in his classes, because they all think being a boy is the best thing, but Fingon doesn't. (During recess last year, one of the boys did not want a girl on their team, and said loudly to everyone, "Boys are faster than girls. We play better." Fingon didn't think this was true, so he said he wanted the girl on his team, and the girl played.)

He knows it doesn't make sense, but he just doesn't feel like a boy. (His atya laughed when he said that last time, and jokingly asked, "What does it feel like to be a boy?" Fingon knew Atya was laughing at him, so he stopped talking, but he also wasn't sure. What did it feel like to be a boy? He wasn't sure.)

He lines up without arguing and joins the boys' team without complaining, but he knows he doesn't belong there. (Once, in kindergarten, he didn't move from his seat, and the teacher asked, "Is everything alright? Remember, boys go to that side of the room." Fingon knew where the boy side of the room was, and he was well-aware that the stupid thing between his legs means he is a boy, but he didn't want to move there.)

Fingon scowls at the paper. "I know I have the best writers in whole school," the teacher says loudly, emphasizing "whole." "You all are working so hard. I know we're going to finish this when the big hand on the clock gets to 9." Fingon looks up at the big clock near the door. The big hand is close to the 9.

He looks back down at the blank line. He doesn't know how to write down all these feelings, so instead, he writes:

Being a boy

He whispers the sentence to himself, "I don't like being a boy."

The girl across from him frowns with some surprise, and Fingon quickly looks down. But he smiles into the crook of his elbow.

Yes, that's it. That's exactly what he's trying to say.

He doesn't like being a boy.


	8. Chapter 8: Reckless

**Reckless**

In his defense, it was a dare. Not any random kind of dare. It was an "I triple dog dare you" dare. And it was an "I triple dog dare you" from one of the most annoying boys in first grade, and no teachers were watching, so he had been sure he wasn't going to get in trouble.

"Findekáno, do you have the slightest idea how reckless that was?" his teacher exclaims. She's crouching low over him, her eyes furious. She won't let him move because his knee and his hands are badly scraped, but she didn't have a big enough band aid, so Elenwë, the class' goody two shoes, to get some big band aids from the nurse. He looks away from her, scowling. "Findekáno, look at me." He looks up, jaw clenched. She's exaggerating. It hurt a lot when he landed, and it's bleeding more than he expected, but it was so fun.

For a few seconds, he flew! Like a bird. Like a plane. Like his body was gone, and he was just soaring, weightless.

"You are never doing that again. If I see you try that again, I won't let you swing ever again," she threatens.

Fingon opens his mouth to protest, but immediately closes it at her glare. He scowls again. It's not his fault he's so good at jumping from a swing that he landed in the asphalt basketball court instead of the softer surface of the swing set. Didn't he deserve an award for that or something? Farthest flier? Successful swinger? Joyful jumper?

Instead, his teacher glares and tells him, "That was incredibly reckless. You could have gotten seriously hurt. What if you hit your head? What would I tell your mother if I had to call her and tell her we had to take you to the hospital because broke your neck jumping from the swings?"

Fingon resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I won't," he promises. "I was smart. I put my hands up." He proudly shows her his scraped hands from where, realizing he was going to hit the concrete, instinct took over, and he managed to put his hands to break his fall. She stares at him – and then he realizes that that was one of those adult things where they ask a question, but you're not really supposed to answer.

"Reckless," she mutters again. Elenwë comes back with the large band-aids and wipes from the nurses' office, and the teacher yanks open the wipes. "This might hurt a bit," she warns, wiping off the blood from Fingon's knees. It stings, but Fingon vows not to so much as whimper. Instead, he stares the blood that collects onto the wipe, staining it a deep red. When the teacher looks up, he holds his head high. She's not impressed. She just grabs a big band-aid from Elenwë, opens it, and slaps it onto Fingon's knee. Fingon grimaces but holds true to his vow.

The teacher stands up. "Don't do that ever again. If I catch you, what's gonna happen?"

"You won't let me swing again," Fingon says. But he notes that she says if she catches him. But… she doesn't have to catch him, right?

"Good."

Elenwë looks at him. "Did you jump from the swing?"

"Yeah."

"And you made it all the way over here?" she asks, looking impressed.

Fingon nods, grinning. Elenwë whistles. "I'm gonna do it again," he whispers. Elenwë is a goody two shoes, but she's good at keeping her mouth shut.

Elenwë's eyes light up.

She and Fingon swing softly for the rest of recess, but when the teacher gets distracted by another injury, Elenwë quickly says, "Now, now!" She jumps off her swing and gives Fingon a hard push. He laughs gleefully, as she pushes him again and again, higher and higher. The clouds get closer, the wind streaks across his face, and he can't stop smiling. He throws a glance at the teacher again; he's almost at the right height, and the teacher is still looking at the other boy.

Elenwë pushes him one more time, and he lets go.

He flies.


	9. Chapter 9: Fish

p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"emspan style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Note: This snippet takes places years after "Reckless." Fingon is about ten years style="mso-spacerun: yes;" CW for rumination, including self-loathing. /span/span/em/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; line-height: 150%;" align="center"strongspan style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Fish/span/strong/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Fingon wakes up early one summer morning with a smile on his face. He rolls around in the blanket, languishing in the knowledge that there's no need to get up, get dressed, and go to school. He's free to come down for breakfast whenever—or free to curl into his blankets and pretend it's not yet morning. Maybe today he'll watch cartoons for a bit, maybe Atya will take them to the park, maybe Aredhel will want to play soccer, or maybe Turgon will want to play Legos. Fingon throws off his covers, grinning. There are so many maybes today, all of them infinitely perfect possibilities for an awe-inspiring adventure. He yawns widely, stretching out his arms wide, and hops out of bed. Upon opening the door to his room, he pauses at the sound of his little brother's voice. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;""How many are we gonna catch?" /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Catch? Are Turgon and Atya going to the park to play ball right now? Fingon hustles down the stairs, not bothering to grab hold of the railing, as he hears his Atya reply, "Depends. Sometimes a lot, sometimes a little." Fingon slides into the kitchen with a large, toothy grin on his face, ready for whatever game they're going to go play, despite the fact that he's still in his dinosaur pajamas. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"He was going to trill a good morning, but instead of seeing a ball and the running shorts he expected, Fingon finds his father sitting at the table with a morning cup of coffee dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and a funny-looking vest with lots of pockets. His greeting vanishes from the tip of his tongue, and instead he frowns at Turgon who sits on his father's knee, pouring over a book with illustrations of fish and lots and lots of words Fingon is confident his little brother can't read. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Fingon cocks his head to the side, bemused at this turn of events. "Morning, Finno," his dad greets with a smile, before taking another swig of the vile black liquid Fingon once, stupidly, asked to try. Turgon doesn't look up from the book, his pudgy little fingers tracing the pictures. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;""What are you doing?" Fingon asks, glancing at the green box and fishing rods next to them. Fingon can already hazard a guess, but he's never seen this equipment out before. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;""Atya's gonna take me fishing!" Turgon shares happily, looking up briefly from his book. "We're gonna catch a lot of fish today!" He shoots a smile at Fingon before nuzzling Fingolfin. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Fingon feels his jaw clench at Turgon's first sentence: Atya is going to take emme/em fishing. Fingon knows he's supposed to love Turgon. Turgon is, after all, his little brother. Sure, he keeps to himself a lot, which Fingon doesn't understand, but Turgon is generally cute, especially now that he doesn't wake everyone up in the middle of the night with his crying. He's usually nice, except when he gets into one of his silent moods. He's not great at sharing his toys, but at least he doesn't break Fingon's toys like Aredhel used to when she was his age. Really, there's no good reason for Fingon to dislike his little brother. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"So why does Fingon hate him so much? /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Fingon scowls, prompting a slightly raised eyebrow from his father that only succeeds in furthering Fingon's anger. Fingon didn't even know father knew how to fish, and even though Fingon is twice his brother's age, Atya never asked Fingon if emhe/em wanted to go fishing. "Finno," his father says with all-knowing smile. "Don't get upset. We both know you hate fish. Why would you want to go fishing?"/span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Fingon looks again at his little brother who remains oblivious to Fingon's jealousy, as he enthusiastically flips through the pages of the fishing book, trying to read the words on the page, sounding them out letter by letter, just like Fingon used to—and even though Fingon remembers what it's like to sound out words, he feels a flash of irritation at watching his younger brother do so. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"His father is still giving him emthat/em look, and Fingon looks away, still scowling. His father is right. Fingon hates fish. They're boring pets. They're slimy, and the water they live in smells gross. And fish tastes gross, too, all weirdly chewy and fishy smelling. But he's still hurt by the lack of invitation. Atya could have at least asked him if he wanted to go. He looks back at his father, then glances again at Turgon (who's reading "salmon" wrong), and his rage reaches a boiling point. "Fine, then!" Fingon spits out, "take your favorite and go, see if I care!" He stomps away and runs back up the stairs, pausing at the top of the stairs and hoping his father will follow him, but Atya doesn't. Atya doesn't even call his name to reprimand him./span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"With an annoyed huff, he stalks back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and jumps back into bed, willing himself not to cry. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanI wish he had never been born, Fingon thinks viciously. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanThen his tears start to flow, and he hiccups into the pillowcase. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanI'm sorry, I didn't mean that, I didn't mean that, I'm sorry, he thinks over and over again. But it's too late. He's a terrible older – he flinches, and the tears fall faster in his frustration. Brother is the wrong word, wrong word, wrong word—but he doesn't have the right word. To be a brother you have to be a boy. And Fingon is not a boy. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanWhat even is he? /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanHe drags the blanket over himself, hiding beneath the covers, as if they could shield from the painful realities of his existence. It seems like so long since Kindergarten when he wore a dress to graduation; so much time has passed since first grade when he wrote that he didn't like being boy; and now, he knows better. It's not that he doesn't like being a boy. He just isn't one, and no one understands, and they treat him like he's the one who doesn't get it. They tell him that he has a penis, and therefore he is a boy. Boys have penises, and girls have a thing called a vagina that isn't a penis, and he's not sure what that looks like, but he knows the penis thing between his legs is wrong. It's not supposed to be there. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanFingon was never supposed to be a boy. He just came out wrong. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanHe muffles his howl of pain by sticking the blanket into his mouth. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanEverything about him is wrong, wrong, wrong. His body is wrong. He can't control his temper even though he's eleven and he's old enough to know better than to slam doors and throw tantrums, but he's upstairs hiding in his covers like some stupid little kid, crying into his pillows, and wishing his Atya would come make him feel better. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanBut Atya won't. He won't, because Fingon a terrible older something to Turgon—and Turgon is his favorite. Turgon is the little boy his father always wanted. Turgon who is always serious and never cries. Turgon who will only play dress up if he's the prince saving the princess. Turgon who keeps his hair short and only wears blue, green, brown, and black. Turgon who rough houses and calls himself a boy like he deserves a gold star for being so. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanFingon lets himself whimper into the blanket, trying to take deep breaths like the counselor at school taught him. He breathes in until his cheeks are so puffy, he thinks they might explode and then he exhales. He does it once, twice, three times, and the pain lessens, and he manages to poke his head from underneath the covers. Just when he thinks he might find the courage to go back downstairs and apologize to his Atya and his brother, to swallow his pride and ask if he can come, too, and to make an extra effort to be a good older something to Turgon today—the doorbell rings./span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"He blinks in confusion, wiping away tears. Who would come visit them this early in the morning? /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /span"Turgon! Hi, Uncle Nolo!" Finrod's loud voice and cheerful laughter float to the second floor, and Fingon feels the lump return to his throat. Hot tears of outrage come to his eyes. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanemFinrod/em got invited. emFinrod/em, who is even littler than Turgon, gets to go fishing with his Atya and his uncle and his brother— and his Atya never even told him this was happening. He curls more tightly around his pillow, not even sure why this hurts so much but it does. He can hear their joy downstairs, the excitement in Finrod and Turgon's voices, the squeals of delight at the promise of donuts, and Fingon finally puts words to the hurt: everyone has a place but him. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Everyone belongs but him. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanHe'd be allowed to go on this fishing trip, if he asked, he knows that. But it's the same sort of thing as when Aredhel and Amil go shopping, and he's allowed to go, if he asks, but he's never invited, never assumed to be part of the group. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"I don't belong; I never belong. The litany of self-doubt and disdain starts again in his mind, and Fingon buries his head in his pillow, trying to hide from it, but it's all in his head and he can't—and then there's a knock at the style="mso-spacerun: yes;" /spanspan style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanspan style="mso-spacerun: yes;" /span/span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /span"Fingon!" Finrod's voice comes through the door in a singsong. Fingon stays silent, but Finrod knocks harder. "Fingon?" His little cousin opens the door, and Fingon curls into his bed sheet, unwilling to let Finrod see his tear-streaked face. "Why are you hiding underneath the covers?" His cousin's voice sounds confused. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /span"Go away," Fingon says, immediately regretting his decision to speak when his voice gives away his tears. Finrod gasps a little, and the next thing Fingon knows, Finrod has pulled away the covers from Fingon's face and is standing next to his bed, stroking his hair. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /span"Are you okay? Do you want a hug?" Finrod asks. His bright blue eyes are wide and concerned. Fingon tries to glare at him, but his eyes are puffy and red, and mostly, he just looks miserable. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in; line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"Fingon takes another deep breath, trying to calm down a little before he answers. Finrod is a little younger than Turgon, possibly the nicest kid on the planet, and Fingon, even on his worst days, couldn't have—doesn't want to have—the heart to be unkind to the little blond. "I'm fine," Fingon grunts in a tone that says he's anything but. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanFinrod looks at him for a moment, then brightly asks, "Do you wanna come with us on the fishing trip? It'll be super cool if you come; it'll be our boys-only adventure!" /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanAnd there it is again! That frustrating, "we're all boys here, and that's the best thing ever" that makes Fingon want to scream. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanBreathe in, count to 5…breathe out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5./span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanFinrod isn't trying to be mean. Finrod isn't trying to be mean. He doesn't know. He doesn't. "I don't want to go," Fingon snaps and hides himself back under the covers. There's silence for a moment, then he hears Finrod say softly, "Okay, I hope you feel better, Fingon." Then the door opens and closes again, and he hears Finrod loudly say, "He says he doesn't want to come!" Then there's more shuffling and bustling and laughter and finally the front closes and the car engine sound gets further and further away. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanFingon tries to practice his breathing again, but he ends up gasping for breath instead through his tears. He can see it in his head: Atya and Uncle Ara and Turgon and Finrod laughing and smiling and eating donuts at the lake while they wait for the fish to bite, and they'll tell stories and play games./span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanEventually, they'll catch fish, and it'll wriggle in the air, gasping for breath just like Fingon. A fish out of water. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanThat's what he is. He is a fish, gasping for air, suffocating slowly. /span/p  
p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: 'Garamond',serif;"span style="mso-tab-count: 1;" /spanspan style="mso-spacerun: yes;" /span/span/p 


End file.
